


Forbidden Fruit

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Jopson gets drunk and Crozier has to put him to bed. Which is tough, because Jopson is so very lovely. And needy...





	1. Chapter 1

One drink became two, and two drinks became three.

 

It is nothing for Francis Crozier, of course – he's in full possession of his wits and senses, perhaps a little tired, if anything, at this late hour. But his loyal steward, young Thomas Jopson, is clearly not used to it. Usually he will take just a tiny sip whenever Crozier offers him a drink, and never more so as not to let it interfere with his duties, but since those Arctic days and nights have become longer and longer, it is no wonder that even Jopson will become bored.

 

Now Jopson is sitting next to him at the great cabin table – or rather, slouching over the table and supporting his head on his hand, looking to the side at his captain with a wide grin. His face is reddened, and he has a hard time keeping those pretty eyes open. His giggling as he's told Crozier tales from his childhood must have been audible all the way to the mess deck.

 

With his other hand he clumsily moves the crystal glass over the table. "Come on, sir." His intense, imploring gaze, in combination with that sweet smile, reminds Crozier of an adorable pet that has learned to beg for food. A sober Jopson would never look at him like that – insisting, biting his lower lip, leaning in closer. "One more drink."

 

But Crozier has only himself to blame, since he's been the one offering the whiskey. "Jopson, quit it. You had enough."

 

"Aww, sir..."

 

"You're going to bed. Now."

 

Finally, Jopson looks away and sighs. He stands up – slowly, unsteadily. Crozier reminds himself to go easy on him tomorrow. This will be one hell of a hangover for the poor lad.

 

He gets up as well, and puts Jopsons arm around him. "Here, let me help you." Secretly, he wishes he could carry him like a bride. He's done it in his dreams often enough, and that was one of the more innocent fantasies.

 

Why does he even _think_ of taking advantage of Jopson at such a moment? Why does he still _want_ him after all those years of successfully oppressing his desires, of stowing away his indecent infatuations that still sometimes haunt him in his dreams? The Captain almost feels himself getting angry – angry at himself for being so weak; even angry at Jopson for being so damned tempting, although he knows how irrational it is.

 

Jopson is an angel, and Captain Crozier would be utterly lost without him.

 

"Francis!" He giggles breathlessly as they stumble down the _Terror's_ narrow hallway, toward the stewards' cabin next to the officers' mess. That is new – the only time he's ever addressed Crozier by his first name has been in Crozier's most secret dreams. He squirms weakly in Crozier's arm, hiccuping, protesting. "I'm not _that_ drunk yet. I can go by myself."

 

"As you wish, landlubber." Crozier carefully peels Jopson's arm off him, not entirely convinced the young man can indeed walk without support. Jopson's body feels warm through the waistcoat and shirt. Crozier keeps his own arm around Jopson, feeling the toned muscles of his shoulders and back, and as he leans toward him he catches a whiff of whiskey on the lad's breath.

 

The whisky always does things to him.

 

Of course it does, but don't lie to yourself, Francis, that low voice in the back of his head whispers, right now it's _Jopson,_ not the whiskey, who's doing things to you. He always has.

 

"Can you climb into your bunk?" he asks, his arm resting heavily on Jopson's waist.

 

The reply is a slurred "Mh-hm". Jopson slides the cabin door aside, and stumbles. Crozier barely manages to catch him. "Blazes", he mutters, trying to manhandle Jopson into an upright position, "you clearly can't. That's gonna be one hell of an headache tomorrow!"

 

The gunroom steward in the other bunk is, as far as he can discern in the dim lamplight, very much asleep. _Thank God._

 

Jopson leans back in Crozier's arms, smiling at him, his heavy-lidded eyes glassy with intoxication. "Ofcoursecap'n", he says and giggles again, "as you say. Anything you say."

 

For a moment the Captain is not sure what to do next – he's holding a half-standing Jopson in his arms, leaning over him so that Jopson's face is just under his own, cheeks as pink as those soft-looking lips, luscious like a forbidden fruit. Jopson has already removed his cravat hours ago, so from that angle he sees all of Jopson's neck, tender skin all the way to the clavicle, barely covered by the high collar of his shirt.

 

With a grunt he sweeps up Jopson in his arms, heaving the weakly protesting younger man all the way onto his bunk. Thank goodness it is the lower bunk, not the upper one!

 

If this is a test devised by God, then so be it! Gently placing Jopson on the bed on his back, Crozier feels he has passed one half of the test. He will demonstrate his strength to God and himself by making sure Jopson is safe and sound.

 

It is a hard test. Jopson laughs, giddily and brightly, grabbing a handful of the captain's jacket. "Cap'n", he slurs, "Cap'n, stay... _hic!_ let's have another drink. It was grand."

 

"Christ!" Crozier tries to free himself from Jopson's grip; telling himself it's impossible because the lad is so strong, but actually he knows he doesn't want to be free right now, he _wants_ Jopson to hold onto him, to pull him down onto the bed. "You'll be the death of me", he growls and he means it.

 

He will rather die than allowing his filthy desires to take over! Since employing Jopson years ago for the Antarctic expedition, he has never let an inappropiate impulse get the better of him. Even when he drinks he is in control, and this must never be undone.

 

"Captain", Jopson begs, smiling, tugging at Crozier's arm. "Youknowwhat …" There is a heavy pause as their gazes meet, and something dark and primal in the steward's eyes. "I'm horny", he whispers.

 

Instantly, Crozier's ears and cheeks heat up like an argand lamp. _What the …!?_

 

"You are drunk!" Crozier says firmly. "Let go! You need to sleep now." He peels Jopson's hand off his arm, and gently pushes the young man back onto the bed.

 

_You have no idea, Jopson. No idea what you are saying … and doing to me._

 

Jopson pouts, making an attempt at a mock angry stare, but does not manage to keep his gaze focused on Crozier. He hiccups, exhales, and begins to fumble unsteadily with his waistcoat. "Nightshirt", he mumbles, "I can't sle- _hic!_ \- sleep like that, I need my nightshirt! Blazin' hell!" Again, a bright beautiful laugh.

 

"All right, all right!" Hoping that his annoyed tone distracts from the tremendous effort Crozier now makes, an effort to _pass_ the test, he helps Jopson to take off the waistcoat, then unbuttons his shirt. "We'll get you into your nightshirt, all right."

 

The Captain's hands are trembling as he opens Jopson's shirt. It is like unwrapping a present, albeit a forbidden one not meant for him. It is the first time he sees so much of Jopson's naked body – in the past there have been almost no occasions for him to see it; it's only ever Jopson who sees everything of his captain – and he stares, unable to take his gaze off Jopson's chest, all smooth skin with just a light fuzz of black hair, and dark brown nipples. Carefully he brushes the shirt further from Jopson's shoulders, and is amazed at the gentle curves of his firmly muscled upper arms.

 

Before he is fully aware of what he is doing, Crozier's hands are on Jopson's body, and the skin feels velvety and hot to his touch. He feels the man's heartbeat; lets two calloused thumbs run over his nipples. Jopson winces and gives a keening moan at the sudden stimulation, and Crozier is fascinated how sensitive they are, instantly hardening.

 

_Francis, for Heaven's sake, what are you doing?_

 

If Jopson is like whiskey, then Crozier has had just one sip. One sip is perfectly fine, isn't it?

He leans down and conquers Jopson's mouth with his own; dry, thirsty lips meeting soft, sated ones; and Jopson's mouth feels oh so wet and warm. Crozier can taste the whisky.

 

 _Oh, dear God._ He kisses Jopson hard and hungrily, and the lad's tongue responds to his own, kissing him back, and Jopson is squirming under him, wincing and gasping when he feels Crozier's hands under his body, roughly squeezing his backside.

 

_Francis, for Heaven's sake! You fool!_ No use lying to himself. An alcoholic never stops at just one sip.

 

The realization of what he is doing – as a Captain, to a subordinate – hits him with the force of a cannonball. Dear God, Crozier mumbles silently, stumbling back, hastily retreating from the bed. What has he done? What in the name of all that is good and holy – how could he – He has _assaulted_ him, hasn't he?

 

"Shit", he mutters, staggering backwards to the door.

 

 

*

 


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

 

 

Back in his own bedcabin Crozier splashes cold water into his face, and stares at the droplets falling onto his towel. Trying to breathe normally, he leans forward, supporting himself with his hands on the wall behind the washbasin.

 

He is beyond salvation.

 

Sitting down on the cabin floor, he leans against the wall, feeling the cold, hard wooden paneling through his clothes. But the icy cold slowly freezing the room from outside is nothing compared to the chilly despair creeping into his core.

 

 

*

 

 

Jopson awakes. His head is heavy as though filled with rocks, and it feels as dull as one, too. There is a strange taste in his mouth and his tongue feels peculiarly fuzzy.

 

Water. He needs water.

 

Groaning, he sits up on the bunk bed, rubbing his tired eyes. The other steward is already up and using the washbasin, looking at him with half curiosity, half amusement. What happened? Fragments of the past night rise in his recent memory. He has drunk a lot, all right. Is this why he is still wearing his trousers and is shirt is open? He must have been really sloshed when he was unable to finish undressing. His nightshirt hangs on the little laundry-line in the corner, neat and and unused.

 

He blushes as the memory returns – a memory so incredible that at first he considers having had just a dream. A most tantalizing, lifelike dream. It still feels raw and real. The captain _kissed_ him, didn't he?

 

A glance at his pocketwatch tells him that it is time for Crozier's breakfast, and he gets up hastily and puts on his waistcoat, prompting a mocking comment from the other steward, something about hangovers, but Jopson barely registers it. All he can think of is the captain, and his heart starts to pound. He gives his face the quickest, most careless wash before darting out of the cabin.

 

*

 

"Good morning, sir." Jopson sets the tray onto the table of the great cabin, in front of Crozier. It would be a morning like any other if it were not for the memory of last night, so fresh in his head, that makes his stomach flutter with excitement.

 

"Good morning." Crozier is not looking at him. To Jopson's amazement, he is not even dressed properly – has he overslept, too? He is still wearing his nightshirt, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his hair looks dishevelled. Does he remember the same? But then … perhaps he feels guilty? Embarrassed, surely? Jopson, sensing the sudden awkwardness, realizes that if he ever wants to get anywhere he has to make the first step.

 

"Captain", he says, slowly and determined to get his full attention, "I … I had this dream tonight."

 

Crozier looks up from his cup of coffee, eyes wide. "A... a dream?"

 

"Yes." Jopson smiles anxiously. "And you were in it."

 

Crozier puts the coffee cup back onto the tray, its contents lightly shaking so that a few drops spill over.

 

It makes Jopson secretly cringe to see how thoroughly mortified the Captain seems. This hasn't been his intention. "Captain", he says pleadingly, "look at me. Look at me, please."

 

Crozier does as he is told, and sets on to speak, but it takes him a few moments to get the words out. "Jopson, it wasn't a dream. You noticed, right? You know it...? I'm so very sorry –!"

 

"Sir, it's all right – you did nothing wrong –"

 

"Blazes, I'm sorry, that was not supposed to happen." Crozier looks down at his breakfast, holding his head with both hands, which to Jopson seems a rather comically dramatic gesture. "What have I done?!? Bloody hell, I'm a miserable perverted old idiot, I should've never –"

 

"Enough!" Jopson barks.

 

Crozier stares at him, frozen in mid-tragedian act, taken aback by his steward's never-heard-before change of tone.

 

When Jopson speaks, he assumes his usual professional everyday self. "Pardon me, sir … I may be inexperienced in such matters. I'm sure I even told you that, along with many other things I'd rather forget. But I'm an adult. I know what happened and why. And I love you as a friend and master …"

 

He pauses for thought.

 

"... well, I _did_ , because I realized a while ago that I want more. I want all of you, captain. It was hard enough for me to accept that part of myself – please don't make it harder." His voice falters. "Just... say 'yes' or 'no'... would you?" The last few words take a huge effort, almost as much as keeping his gaze locked with Crozier's. "Please, Captain. I love you. I want you. Can you... do you want the same?"

 

His face is so hot it feels almost feverish. Unable to bear Crozier's stare any longer he looks down.

To his suprise he finds himself enveloped in a tight, desperate embrace.

 

"Yes", Crozier says, "yes, oh, yes." He holds Jopson close, his face pressed against Jopson's shoulder.

He feels so soft and warm against Jopson's skin and his hands so firm and comforting that for a minute Jopson wonders how they would feel on other areas of his body. He recalls having those hands touch him last night, but only briefly, it was not enough, how could it possibly be enough!?

 

"Jopson?" Crozier mutters. "I'm sorry … of course you're a grown man. Who knows that better than I? Yet it feels like I'm taking advantage of a young, innocent – dear God, I mean... nevermind, lad! What I want to say is – yes, I want you. I love you. For years now… "

 

He interrupts the embrace, gently pushing Jopson from him at arm's length so they can see each other's faces.

 

Jopson feels tears well up, but they are tears of happiness and relief. What an incredible, wondrous thing that something he has believed to be bad is so readily accepted and enthusiastically requited! "Oh, sir. That makes me so happy!"

 

Crozier sounds anxious. "You'll forgive me, then?"

 

"Yes, I forgive you. You're still the same person as ever." Jopson brings Crozier's hand to his lips, pressing the captain's fingertips against his mouth – a daring, brazen thing to do, but it feels wonderfully right.

 

"Oh, Thomas." Crozier's voice goes dry and raspy.

 

Jopson kisses the captain's fingertips, and then his palm. "I'm so glad. I just would never have guessed … you'd want me too." He puts Crozier's hand on his chest, directly atop his beating heart.

 

"Oh God", Crozier says. "By all gods, yes!" He brings his face closer to Jopson's.

 

And when his lips meet Jopson's, this lovely, sensual and oh so inviting mouth touching his, the last piece of the puzzle finally falls into place.

 

The end

 

 


End file.
